


Montmartre

by sconelover



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, France (Country), Henry Speaking French, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Explicit Sex, Paris (City), That Day in Paris, Wine, Yes that's as hot as it sounds, firstprince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Henry does get out of Germany, and he meets Alex near a herd of crêpe-eating tourists by Place du Tertre, wearing a sharp blue blazer and a wicked smile.That day (and night) in the City of Lights. The heady sweetness of falling in love.It's all so fucking French.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 39
Kudos: 158





	Montmartre

Henry meets him at Montmartre.

It’s the type of place made for meeting someone, Alex thinks. New friends and old lovers. Things and people you’d thought you’d lost could be found here, just above the city of Paris, just a half step out of touch.

The Place du Tertre is a famous tourist spot, and probably for a reason. A small, cobblestone square ringed with cafes and shops selling jangly trinkets and overpriced _crêperies._ The center is brimming with artists and their easels. Alex spots more than one rendition in watercolor or oil paint of the square itself.

He got here with Cash a few minutes ago. They parked at the bottom of the hill and took the _funiculaire_ up—mostly because Cash wanted to, but the look on his face when the train started moving was worth it. They checked out the _Sacré-Cœur_ as well, the basilica right at the crest of the hill, because Alex is pretty much sure that once he sees Henry, he won’t be all that into sightseeing.

Now, he’s pacing circles in the square while Cash settles down at a nearby café, unconcerned about the spindly wicker chair, and unfolds his crossword. 

Every blond head, every sharp-cut jaw weaving among the bustling square seems to belong to Henry. Alex isn’t sure why his heart is in his throat. It’s just Henry. Henry who sends him ridiculous emails that have gotten him kicked out of morning meetings more than once because he’s laughing too hard. Henry who comes to France for him, who promises things like blowjobs and fancy cheeses; who is a promise of whirlwinds and tumultuousness.

People recognize Alex everywhere he goes, so the waves and cameras are no surprise, but it feels funny to be seen here, in France. It feels a world away from everything he’s known, even though he’s more aware than anyone how small the world really is. He’s lost among these people.

Another tourist. Another someone searching for something.

He gets out his phone and texts Henry: **(un)Hurried Rude Heir– are you planning on keeping me waiting all day?**

“Only a few hours,” comes the response, called out across the square. Alex whips his head up to follow the voice, and— _there._

Henry’s wearing a sharp blue blazer and a wicked smile. He raises an eyebrow as he strolls toward Alex and comes to stop right in front of him. “I’ve heard it’s in vogue these days to be fashionably late.”

Alex allows himself a moment to drink in the sight of Henry—hands casually in his pockets, hair gently tousled from the wind, winsome blue eyes. Every bit a prince. And a little bit _his—_ at least for today.

It’s a minute before he remembers the formalities (despite the fact that his strongest urge is to jump Henry’s bones right here and now). “Hi,” he breathes out, and extends his hand. Henry grasps firmly as he shakes, lingering a second too long. “Good to know you’re still a little bit of an asshole.”

Henry laughs. “Always, for you.”

Alex resists the urge to keep holding his hand. “C’mon,” he says, leading the way through the square, “I think I found a café you’ll like.”

They push through the crowd. People don’t make way here like they do back home; it’s an unusual feeling, one that brings back the feeling of being _nobody_ with a weird sort of pang.

(The crowd does move for Cash and Shaan, somewhere behind them; Cash is straight-up imposing, and Shaan could probably part the Red Sea with a well-intentioned wave of his hand, so.)

They reach the café, which Alex gestures to with a flourish.

_La Mère Catherine._

“Mother Catherine,” Henry translates, smiling. “I see what you did there.”

Despite the cool March breeze, people are seated outside in wooden chairs, checked tablecloths under cream-colored umbrellas. The inside’s stuffy, but there’s a little courtyard lined with flowered trellises and inlaid brick that offers the perfect amount of privacy. 

_“Un table pour deux personnes, s'il vous plaît,”_ Henry says in what (to Alex’s ears, at least) seems like fluent French. (It’s kind of mega-hot.) The hostess stares at the two of them for a beat too long before ushering them to a tiny table in the corner, right up against a wall of vines, and unfolding two menus in front of them.

He’s been thinking about Henry’s mouth for weeks. It’s been almost an entire month since he’s touched Henry, and he’ll admit that dirty, badly timed emails aren’t the best substitute. Now, with Henry right across from him at this tiny-ass table, he’s driven to distraction. He came here for one thing, and it wasn’t really French cheese or a rainforest fund-raiser. 

So, he thinks he needs to get drunk.

Alex cuts right to the chase. “What do you know about French wine?”

“More than you, I’d wager.” Henry flicks open the wine menu and pages through it. “Red or white?”

“Red.”

Henry smiles handsomely as the waitress approaches. He orders a bottle of something expensive-sounding, along with some food, all in French—the way his mouth shifts to accommodate the new sounds is nothing short of obscene.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Alex says.

“So am I.”

“Because like, rainforests are very exciting.”

“Exactly,” Henry says, laughing. “Actually, did you see they’ve suggested themed outfits? Bea tried to get me to wear a toucan-patterned tie.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Are you gonna do it?”

“She can be very persuasive.”

“That’s really out there for you. Major statement.”

“I know,” Henry says, smirking. “Quite the fashion risk. What are you wearing? Full rainforest-patterned suit, I bet.”

“That’d be fucking awesome,” Alex says, “but Zahra vetoed the leafy tux, _and_ a Hawaiian shirt—”

“That one I can understand.”

“—but I did push through a green suit. And a bright pink floral shirt. With hummingbirds.”

“I’d expect no less than that level of extra from you,” says Henry, laughing. 

“Hey, I’ve got a personal brand to uphold.”

“J. Crew?”

“Ouch.”

Alex is smiling wider than he can remember doing in the past entire month, and Henry’s expression is so teasing and so openly wanting that he can’t imagine he ever hated him. 

“Admit it. You’ll be swooning from across the room, sweetheart,” Alex says.

Henry heaves a dramatic fake-sigh. “If only we could choose who we’re attracted to. Alas, I’m doomed to lust over a man who thinks rainforest suits are _haute couture_.”

“You’re not exactly the peak of fashion yourself,” Alex counters. “Like, 95% of your closet is royal blue.”

“Ah, but _I_ can blame it on the crown,” Henry says, smiling. 

“No, you can’t. The queen wore _neon purple_ during her last speech.”

“The rest of us have a mandated dress code!” he protests.

“The only thing I remember is that weird rule about socks or something.”

 _“Pantyhose,”_ Henry corrects. “Which doesn’t concern me—”

“You sure? I seem to remember a certain tight, _tight_ polo outfit—”

Henry chokes on his wine. 

They banter about the finer points of the royal dress code throughout their first bottle of wine. When the food arrives, Henry orders a second—in French—and Alex tries very hard to tamp down the swoony feeling in his chest.

It doesn’t really work. He resists the urge to check his watch, resists the urge to calculate exactly how long they have to stay here before they can leave without rousing suspicion.

 _Fuck._ He wants—

“Distracted?” Henry’s watching him with a knowing expression, eyes coy and discerning. He looks warm—he always looks warmer in person than in the pictures and the tabloids—always seems so full of life, such a contrast to the face he puts out to the public.

“Just thinking about what we’re going to do later.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Educate ourselves on the finest French cheeses?”

“Yeah, that’s totally it.”

Alex grins at Henry and toasts him with a tiny sandwich. Henry pours his next glass of wine _much_ fuller than is proper.

Afterwards, they stumble back to his hotel, down the cobblestone streets as dusk falls. It’s a long way downhill, but Cash shrugs and says, “Walk if you want”—so they do. Alex laughs and chases Henry through the winding roads, tripping on his own feet.

The sky is purple and endless, and the streetlights are blinking on, washing Henry in gold and shadows. He’s a bit rough at the edges like this, cheeks red and eyes too bright and hair mussed. Alex likes him like this, when he’s allowing a bit of himself to show through.

They amble down a tiny alley where there’s no one else to see them. They don’t risk anything, not here, but he can look at Henry openly, and that’s enough for now.

Alex is full to the brim with wine and bread and unbridled desire. He practically pushes Henry through the doors of his hotel. He knows Cash is watching their backs, talking to the concierge, so he heads right for the elevator.

“I want you,” he tells Henry through hazy eyes and a loose mouth. He’s drunk and almost delirious with the thought of touching him soon—of touching him again, _finally_.

“You have no idea,” is what Henry responds, gaze burning into him.

His lips are on Henry’s before the suite door fully closes. Alex moans into his mouth, pushes his body against Henry’s with desperate need. It’s so soft, so infused with wine and Paris and springtime. It feels like something utterly lustful and unspeakably tender, all at once.

Henry’s blazer drops to the floor first, followed by Alex’s jacket. They leave a breadcrumb-trail of castaway clothes as they make their way to the bedroom. Buttons messily undone, pants impatiently tugged down. Alex laughs and stumbles, feet stuck in his jeans, and Henry catches him and dips him into a kiss.

And then without warning, he picks Alex up and carries him to the bedroom. “Fucking Prince Charming,” Alex mutters, but he wraps his arms around Henry’s neck and squishes his face into his shoulder anyway. Like, he knows Henry’s strong, but it’s kind of amazingly hot that he can do this.

“Don’t you know it,” Henry chuckles, and he sets Alex down next to the bed and flicks on the bedside lamp. 

Henry peels off what remains of his shirt and they kiss again, tangled up in each other. Alex feels dizzy, out of breath—every kiss is sending his head spinning. From here he can see out the huge window, where the city of Paris twinkles up at them like so many stars.

Henry’s mouth is soft and hot. Alex slips his hands through Henry’s hair, breeze-cold and windswept, and Henry works at his shirt buttons with nimble fingers. “Lovely,” Henry is murmuring as he kisses him.

“What is?”

“Today.” Alex can feel Henry smiling against his mouth, lazy, loose. “You.” He’s pushing Alex against the soft covers; the alcohol has made him brave and forthcoming. _“Tes yeux.”_ He kisses Alex’s eyelids, running his thumbs across his eyebrows, his cheekbones. _Cejas, pómulos._

 _“Ton visage.”_ Warm lips move to Alex’s cheek, to his jaw. _“Ton cou.”_ Henry nips at his neck, and Alex moans long and low.

“Keep speaking French to me, H, it’s so hot.”

Henry laughs, a warm, syrupy sound. He floats back into Alex’s vision. _“Tes lèvres,”_ he says, and he kisses him on the lips. The feeling trickles down to the core of Alex’s stomach, especially when Henry reaches for the back of his neck and deepens the kiss.

And then he sinks to his knees on the white marble, eyes trailing down Alex’s body, slowing to a stop at his hips. _“Et tout le reste,”_ he says, and bites his lip.

Henry’s mouth is soft and perfect; his hands broad and warm, holding the small of Alex’s back, right where he has two dimples. It’s earnest and tender, exactly the opposite of what they’ve done the past two times, exactly what Alex promised himself he wouldn’t do. Gentle, featherlight touches, making his knees go weak.

He’s not sure what he’s saying, now—maybe something in Spanish—the chorus is more on the end of _sweetheart,_ less on the end of _motherfucker._ It’s so fucking infused with magic and wine and French; he feels almost heartsick with it.

Henry looks up at him with big, blue, bottomless eyes right as Alex tips over the edge, and he doesn’t know a word in any language to describe it.

When he finds his knees again, he pulls Henry up and into him. They fall against the pillows, and Alex can’t stop smiling. It feels like Paris feels, like Montmartre felt—like finding something, like a half step away from reality.

Right now, it’s just them and the bed and the city. Henry’s warm all over, flushed and delicious. Alex willingly takes him apart.

His Royal Highness laughs when he comes. It’s one of the most beautiful things Alex has ever seen. They’re folded into each other, content and loose-limbed and a bit sweaty. Alex lets his limbs sink into Henry’s, lets every part of him be held.

“Should I go?” Henry asks, quietly.

“Stay,” Alex hums, and pulls him closer.

They blink at Paris, and it blinks back. Henry leans his head down to kiss him, and it’s hopelessly soft and open. Alex feels endless and a little bit stupidly romantic. Because of the wine and the city and _Henry._

He falls asleep in Henry’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️ 
> 
> Thank you so much to my lovely betas, [cmere,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmere/pseuds/cmere) [ashspren,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) and [steph!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/artsyevans) ❤️ 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@sconelover](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/scone-lover)


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